


Griffin Mcelroy Who Lives Under Your Bed

by lesbianenderman (eghed)



Category: My Brother My Brother and Me (Podcast)
Genre: POV Second Person, Raisin Bran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 09:52:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eghed/pseuds/lesbianenderman





	Griffin Mcelroy Who Lives Under Your Bed

It’s been a long day. Working unreasonable hours with people you don’t like doing jobs you don’t care about? It sucks, but it’s standard for a kid like you trying to live up to the American Dream. 

You slump through your door just before eleven and drop your coat on the floor. You shove some dry cereal into your mouth, far too tired to cook a real meal, and then decide to take the whole box to bed with you. Hey, you live alone! Who’s judging? 

You wiggle into your peejays and flop onto your bed with about as much grace as you can muster. In doing this, the box of cereal falls to the wood floor. You wince when you hear the crunch of flakes being demolished. You roll over with a groan and reach blindly to the floor, but pull your head over when your hand comes up empty. To your surprise and confusion, there is no box to be found. Did you imagine the box? Are you like the little match girl, sitting outside a Target and gazing at a box of Raisin Bran as though it were your own? As exhausted as you are, you are quite sure this isn’t the case. You push yourself forward until you are doing a pseudo-headstand and looking into the dark abyss that is under your bed. There is a man under it. 

“Hello,” You say. He is on a laptop and eating your cereal. He looks over at you. 

“Yes?” He asks. He seems annoyed, which you find unreasonable. He did, after all, just steal your cereal. 

“May I have my cereal back, please?” You ask. His face scrunches up. 

“Are you kidding, man?” He says. He pats his hand on the floor indignantly. “This is how it works. I eat what you drop on the floor. It’s all I get! Usually it’s just, like, one Cheez-It. And do you know how rarely I get water? And now, here I am, thinking you’ve finally decided to be generous, but it was just a mistake? Pathetic.” He eats another handful of your cereal and turns back to his work.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “but I really had no idea you were here.” The man scoffs.

“Figures. You kids, with your Mitski and your Undertale. You never appreciate art.” His hand shoots out from under the bed holding a little business card. His hand is sickly pale. Almost yellow? You take the card from him and his hand disappears as quickly as it came. You examine the card. “My Brother, My Brother, And Me”, it tells you in big red and white letters. This tells you nothing. 

“Who are your brothers?” You ask. You hear a muttering. 

“They’re nobody. I’m the brothers.” The click-clacking of keys. .

“That makes no sense,” You insist. 

“Listen, kid,” he says. You hear a click as he closes his laptop. “You don’t need to understand my craft. I’m just doing my job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to keep doing that so you can do yours.” 

“I suppose,” you say. You sit back up on the bed and your blood rushes back to where it belongs. You lay down. 

After a moment of laying in the light of your lamp, you call down: “Shouldn’t you be paying rent?” 

You get no response. 

When you wake up the next day, the sun hasn’t risen. You stretch and get dressed and cook breakfast, and you tell yourself last night was only an incredibly strange dream. You tell yourself this until you open your cupboard and your Raisin Bran is missing, and until you see the business card sitting on your nightstand. You sit on the floor and look underneath your bed. He’s still there, sleeping now. In the light the morning offers you can see him a little better: very short, incredibly thin, skin almost translucent. He’s frightening to look at, so you stop looking. You leave for work. You keep the card in your shirt pocket. 

When you arrive in your cubicle, you put a stick of gum in your mouth and you boot up your computer. You open your email instinctively, and when nothing is there, you type “My Brother, My Brother, and Me” into the search bar. There are many results, listing different episodes and merchandise and even images. There are, as advertised, three brothers: one with a beard and eyeliner, one with a Hawaiian shirt and a big smile, and the man from under your bed. Not quite, actually, because this one looks like a perfectly functioning person who eats protein and goes on walks. But it’s the same nose and the same mouth. His name is Griffin.  
You work for eight hours and bustle out the door. You get in your car and drive to a nearby fast food chain. In the drive-thru, you order a burger for yourself and a box of nuggets for Griffin. You hope he isn’t vegetarian as you drive home. 

Once inside, you eat your burger at the kitchen island and then slink into your room. With incredible care, you place the nuggets on the floor next to your bed. They remain there. You glance at your lamp. You look back, and the nuggets are gone. 

You crouch down. “You can just take them. They’re for you. It doesn’t matter if I’m looking.” 

He’s already eaten almost half the box. He glares at you. “Leave me alone.”

You don’t. “I looked up your show. You and your brothers looked very nice. What happened?” 

“I told you, it’s just me.”

“Clearly, that was a lie. If you’re going to live here, I’d appreciate knowing what your deal is.” 

He groans. “Fine! Jesus. Just look.” 

He pushes his laptop out into the open floor. On the screen is a 3D modeling program. You see the brothers, all in a row. They’re t-posing, but not because they are teens from several months ago when that was funny, but because they are character models. 

“Well, there’s that,” You say, “but how do you do the voices?” 

He clears his throat. “Kiss your dad square on the lips,” he says, but he’s Justin. 

“Impressive,” You say. “Why do you do it?” 

He shrugs. “Saving up for a rocket ship. Goin’ home.” 

“In space?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.” 

Griffin Mcelroy lives under your bed for two more years. People ask if you listen to the show, sometimes. It’s so funny, they say. There’s nothing like a real family dynamic. You nod. The last episode ever to come out has a great joke about Martians. When you get home from work that day, the place under your bed is empty. There’s a an unopened box of Raisin Bran on your pillow with a note that says, “thanks. get better taste in cereal”. 

You don’t.


End file.
